I opened the door — did I even think?
Of stories carved in every link?
Or was I just cold, or tired, or numb,
Dreaming of silence, a bed to succumb?
A nice old carpet, soft and proud,
Long halls where whispers aren’t too loud.
Each door I passed could hold a tale,
But only silence marked the trail.

No footsteps, no voices, no clinking plates,
Just time standing still behind the gates.
Born in peace, yet built on ash —
You breathed in slow, with quiet flash.

🎶 1922 — and winter’s at the door,
He doesn’t knock, he’s heard before.
With leaves still clinging, cold and thin,
And something strange beneath the skin.
1922 — I felt your spine,
Old wooden bones in fading shine.
I came for sleep, I stayed for lore —
1922, with winter at the door. 🎶

Rapallo ink still wet with trust,
And Walther fell into the dust.
Insulin saved, the Irish cried,
While quiet hands built you with pride.
Mussolini rose, raw goods ran dry,
But still you reached toward the sky.
Brick by brick, you took your stand,
A shelter shaped by human hand.

What did I want? A pillow, a prayer?
Just steam on glass and cleaner air?
But I found a century dressed in dust,
And walls that whisper: “feel, don’t trust.”

🎶 1922 — and winter’s at the door,
He waits like he has waited before.
A suitcase packed with frost and light,
And stories hidden from the night.
1922 — you held me tight,
Through autumn’s end and morning white.
And when I left, I knew much more —
1922, with winter at the door. 🎶

It was a sunny morning. But cold.
He stood there.
Winter.
Not unkind. Not loud.
With surprises in his bag.
But spring came,
and one by one...
they melted.
And in the summer… they were gone.

1922 (Deep House Version)

our-time-–-human-hx-(for-the-forgotten) 2.mp3

My dark twisted album of different rooms from my bedrooms

want me like that

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